I went down to Hell
And found there none who thought their time above was thieved
from them,
That another minute would have improved.
Went down to Hell and found vanity as the cess, the sump, the
prime despatch,
Never would have thought it, given the world as it is,
But one of seven it had to be, and vana gloria seemed to fit.
Went down to Hell, no sulphurous smokes or emanations,
No stenches various of furfural and quinoline,
Or even brimstone plains to stretch further than the mortal eye,
No lampblack stains on vaulted caverns,
No bodyparts, charred, stiffed at the joint,
Blanched asepsis was the theme - and this the immobility.
A window,
A rose window with piercings, foliates, inceptions, by camera obscura
a flickering glance on Heaven,
To supply envy for eternity, no doubt, though sins do not flourish in
Hell.
Went down to Hell and saw oceans of honesty and exchange - it was
all so immaterial now,
Found them all in unchanging way
And, knowing it, did not strive to be other than what they are,
Saw them, the damned, moving in limb, conversing, debating, all
effectively,
Found the damned friendly and hospitable,
Slightly sent neurotic, obsessing, phobic in certain areas,
Saw, everywhere stacked, the hoops and tests, the Ararat, the bush for
the burning,
The lion's den and four Judaean extras, the props theatrical,
The dice used to cast lots for the division of rainment, good Roman dice,
They would come out again, which taught me of satisfaction.
A window onto a slightly tame precipice,
Suggesting that Hell the first-built, Hell apparently the Lord’s critical
construction, had become low on the priorities,
Out peninsular,
A Hell not hip and not now happening.
Went down to Hell and was kidded on over Nightingale, she's just
here, her normal billet,
Francis, he's usually around,
Saints Bernard, Anselm, John Chrysotomos, don't where they are
at the moment, but they'll be back some time,
Kidded, I do believe.
A window prosing on with its display, the breathing in and out, the
image just a scarecrow, all stuff of light, nothing to know outside
of Hell, today,
Never saw a Pilate, curiously, or a Blackbeard, Bluebeard, any of
the villains.
Went down to Hell and found ripostes, witty, pending,
Filed by iron alphabet, and each under their different depth of
dust,
I suppose they were amputated from arrivals,
L’esprit d’escalier not so alive, not so well.
Saw the Epicureans equal with everyone else,
And tristesse would lap over them at times, how could it not?
Saw nihilists, futurists, strong in their sects, this fraternity and that,
Wondered if 'medals for all' dictated a large Heaven.
A window
Which came back to its starers with not the opposite vista,
The back and forth was broken,
And any would be dislocated by their use of it.
As for the dreams refused by the soft souls upstairs,
Went down to Hell and found many dreams consolidated, anything
that could be made firmer was,
Which taught me of me,
Went down to Hell and the whole aeternecy was an experience,
But wasn't especially taught of Death.
